


Alterations

by Eledhwen



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: General, Post-War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 12:12:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4221299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eledhwen/pseuds/Eledhwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in Minas Tirith, following the wedding of Aragorn and Arwen. A series of snapshots from one day, featuring the Fellowship and co-starring Faramir, the Twins, Elrond and Galadriel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Aragorn awoke suddenly, from an indistinct dream that was already slipping away from him. Above him, the gilded and carved ceiling glinted strangely in the half-light of dawn, and the soft linen that encased him seemed alien and uncomfortable. He sat up, rubbing his face with both hands to rid himself of tiredness, and glanced sideways at the tendrils of black hair spread out on the pillow next to him. As he had done for the past week, he wondered if he was still dreaming, and if in a moment he would wake for real and discover he was lying wrapped in his old cloak on some bed of leaves, out in the Wild.

He swung his legs out of the bed, and stood up, stretching.

“Morning, love,” Arwen murmured from behind him.

“I always wake you!” Aragorn said. “I am sorry.”

She brushed hair out of her eyes, and shook her head. “You know well that I was already awake. I cannot get used to this business of sleeping.”

“I cannot get used to being inside,” Aragorn said, throwing open the thick curtains and the windows they hid. “It is another beautiful morning.”

Arwen slipped out of bed and padded softly across the floor to join him, putting her arm around his waist and leaning her head into his shoulder. He rested his chin on her dark tresses and together they gazed out at the City spread out below them.

There was a soft knock on the door, followed by it opening and a servant creeping in with a pitcher of water. He started when he saw the pair by the window, and was about to withdraw.

“Thank you,” Aragorn said, turning his head. The servant froze, looking exactly like a deer facing the point of an arrow, and gulped, and then put the pitcher down and hurried away. “The hot water is all very well and good,” Aragorn sighed, “but I wish they wouldn’t bother. They always look so scared.”

“I fear it is me,” Arwen said, going to sit at her dressing table and picking up a brush. “Every time I cross a servant they turn and go in the other direction.” She frowned at her reflection, and brushed in silence for a moment.

Aragorn watched her brushing and frowned in his turn, before picking up one of the rich, soft robes he had been provided with, and slipping it on. “I will see you at breakfast?”

She nodded, and he bent to kiss her before leaving the room.

The table was laid ready when Aragorn reached the breakfast chamber, an airy room which commanded views of the Pelennor. Another servant was hovering, and hurried to pull out a chair so that Aragorn could sit, before bringing him bread and preserves and pale cordial. There was already a pile of papers by Aragorn’s place, and he settled to reading through them as he began to eat. Petitions for asylum, counsel from the senior advisors, messages from elsewhere in the kingdom – all what Aragorn was quickly growing used to. As he ate, he sorted the papers into order of priority, and made a mental list of the first things he had to do, remembering the afternoon was set aside today for the people of the City to request an audience with him.

He had almost finished eating when Arwen arrived, dressed in simple white with a circlet of silver in her hair. Her eyes went straight to the papers, and she settled at the table with a sigh.

“Must you work this morning?”

“I have no choice, love, you know that,” Aragorn said. “I have to speak to the counsellors, and visit the Houses of Healing; survey the Pelennor … there is so much to do.” He swallowed the last mouthful of cordial. “I beg your forgiveness, my lady.”

“I know you cannot help it,” Arwen said. “And of course I knew that this would be the order of our lives – but it is not what I really wished for, Estel.” She spread honey on a piece of bread and contemplated it. “I think I shall go for a ride with my brothers, then, and escape from the City for the morning.”

“It will settle,” said Aragorn, rising from his seat and collecting together his papers. “I swear to you, Arwen, we shall have our time, soon.”

“I hope so,” she returned. He bent to kiss her hair, scented this morning with roses, and hurried away.

His study seemed close and stuffy, and after depositing the papers on the large oaken desk, Aragorn crossed to the window and pushed it open, letting the morning air and sunshine stream in.

After a moment, he sighed and turned to work.

The first interruption came in the middle of signing various minor decrees, and Aragorn put down his quill and flexed his fingers before calling out, “Enter!”

One of the servants came in, bowed, and said hurriedly, “The Prince Imrahil, your Majesty.”

“Thank you.” Aragorn said, and added, “Girod, is it not?”

“Yes, your Majesty.” The young man bowed again.

“Send in the lord Prince, then,” Aragorn said, and Girod disappeared, to be replaced in a moment by Imrahil, who closed the door behind him.

“I trust I do not disturb anything important, my lord?” the Prince said, and Aragorn shook his head.

“Re-housing orders … rationing … all matters that have already been resolved by the counsellors. Please, sit down.”

Imrahil pulled up a chair and sat with a sigh. “It is a beautiful morning.”

“Too beautiful to be inside,” Aragorn agreed. “So what brings you here, my lord Prince?”

“A memory,” Imrahil said, steepling his fingers in front of his face and meeting Aragorn’s gaze with sea-grey eyes. “I was perhaps eighteen. A party came to Dol Amroth from Minas Tirith, led by Denethor.” He paused. Aragorn said nothing. “One of the party sang us a song, in Quenya, which I later complimented him upon.”

Aragorn smiled slightly, and picked up his pipe from where it lay on the desk. He struck a match and lit the pipe weed in the bowl. “I was wondering if you remembered that,” he said. “I thought it strange you hadn’t commented on our earlier meetings before now.”

“My mind was otherwise occupied,” Imrahil returned. “I was not looking to find Thorongil in the King Elessar. You seemed familiar, but I put that down to your resemblance to Denethor. I remembered last night, when one of the minstrels was singing the same song.”

Aragorn sent a smoke ring sailing up towards the ceiling. Imrahil leant forward.

“Were you ever going to mention it, my lord?”

“I saw no need to, Imrahil,” Aragorn said. “But I am glad you remembered. I suppose you do not recall that visit with much pleasure, though.”

“Because of my sister?” Imrahil shrugged. “It was a good match. None of us could have foreseen that she would fade away here. She spoke fondly of you, though, when we saw each other.” He smiled, nostalgically. “Poor Finduilas. How things have changed since then, particularly for you – from Guardsman to King.”

“It has been a very long road,” Aragorn said.

Imrahil nodded. “Aye, it has been.” He paused. “What I really wanted to know, my lord, is whether you intended to tell my nephew of your friendship with my sister, and the rivalry between yourself and the lord Denethor.”

“Tell Faramir of Thorongil?” Aragorn said. “Truthfully, Imrahil, I had not considered it much. The Steward has many cares and worries without heaping old history on his shoulders also. You know him better than I – what think you?”

“I think that in fairness to Faramir, you should,” Imrahil said, resting his chin on his hand. “He sees much, and thinks on it too long without sharing his worries. And it would ease his heart to hear of his mother. He has few memories of her.”

“Can you not talk to him about Finduilas?” Aragorn asked.

Shifting in his chair, Imrahil said, “I have done, many a time, and exhausted all the tales I know. Long were the hours we spent together when he was a boy visiting Dol Amroth. You knew a different side of my sister, my lord. I know she found solace in your company.”

Aragorn relit the weed in his pipe and stood, going to the open window and looking out. “I am glad of it, though I did not do much, and I could not tell her much. Indeed we spoke mostly of old tales.”

“She always loved old tales,” Imrahil returned, “and therefore I know she enjoyed your conversations. But I wish I had known you were more than a mere Guard at that time, sire, for then I would have encouraged my sister to look elsewhere for her match.”

The words hung in the air, and at length Aragorn turned around. “You know well I could not reveal my blood, not then. It was not the time. And even if I had been able to – Imrahil, I fell in love with my lady Arwen on the day of my twentieth birthday, and since that day she has always held my heart.”

Imrahil looked down at his hands. “It pained me so, to see her wither. I watched her fade away, year by year, trapped in Minas Tirith, caught between duty and Denethor’s coldness ...” he broke off. “I should not speak ill of the dead.”

Aragorn watched the Prince for a moment, as the other man gazed downwards, picking at a half-healed cut on his left wrist. Finally, Imrahil looked up again.

“I beg you, sire, speak to Faramir.”

“I will speak to him,” Aragorn agreed, tapping his pipe out in the small dish on his desk. “When a time presents itself. But only if he wants to hear, Imrahil, I will not pressure him into listening to something that would hurt him. He has suffered too much.”

“We have all suffered too much,” the Prince agreed. “The City, her people, Middle-earth itself. Now is the time for peace, and for reconciliation.” From the open window the great bell rang ten times, and Imrahil stood up. “And now I must not trespass on your time any longer, your Majesty – I have business to see to.”

“I will speak to Faramir, my lord Prince,” Aragorn said.

Imrahil nodded, and bowed, and left the room.

For a moment, Aragorn gazed out of the window over the City, and then turned back to his desk and picked up his pen again.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, following the wedding of Aragorn and Arwen. A series of snapshots from one day, featuring the Fellowship and co-starring Faramir, the Twins, Elrond and Galadriel.

“It’s healing nicely,” the woman said, unwrapping the bandages. “I must say our Elfstone worked marvels, Master Baggins.”

“Indeed he did,” Frodo agreed, his eyes fixed on the patterned weave of the healer’s dress as she applied a salve to the stump of his finger.

“And the powers of athelas!” she continued, picking up a fresh bandage and beginning to wind it around his hand. “None of us had any idea! Thought it was a weed, we did. And yet it saved the Lady of Rohan, and our Steward, and your cousin … marvellous, indeed, marvellous. The Warden is speaking to that Elf, the Lord Elrond I mean, about getting some more supplies in.” She adjusted the bandage. “Now normally I wouldn’t be so enthusiastic about Elvish medicine, not knowing it well, but it seems they have all kinds of remedies for all our illnesses. What do you say to that?”

Frodo smiled, wishing that she would not talk so much, but he did not voice his thoughts. The healer tied the bandage in a neat knot and gathered her things, rising from the kneeling position she had been in to tend to his hand.

“There. Now be sure and return the day after tomorrow, Master Baggins, or there’ll be words.”

“Thank you, Ioreth,” Frodo said, and Ioreth curtsied briefly before hurrying out. There was a moment’s silence, and then he heard her voice greeting someone down the corridor.

He sighed, and stood up from the low stool he had been perched on. He put his injured hand in his pocket and left the room.

Outside it was a beautiful warm day, and Frodo grinned with something approaching pure happiness as he saw Sam sitting in the gardens swinging his legs contentedly, a thin wisp of smoke spiralling up into the air.

“Hullo, Sam,” he said, climbing on to the bench beside his friend.

“Morning, Mr Frodo,” Sam said softly. “How’s your poor hand?”

“Better,” Frodo replied, “at least it is healing.”

“I am glad,” Sam said. “I was afeared it wouldn’t, that that nasty Gollum had poisoned you or something. Master Gandalf said not to worry, but I couldn’t help it, somehow.”

“It was not Gollum who poisoned me, Sam,” Frodo said reassuringly. “He was poisoned by the same thing as I myself.” He put his hand up to his neck reflexively, and then brought it down again. “But that is gone – let us talk of happier things, eh?”

“I hope you’ll come to supper this evening,” said Sam. “Mr Strider – I mean the King – well, he said he would like to talk to you, and he’s that busy during the day it’d be best at supper.” His good-natured face took on a solid resolve. “Besides, I don’t think you’re eating enough.”

“There are always so many people,” Frodo sighed. “It is not Aragorn’s fault, for he cannot help it, but I much prefer peace and quiet. But if he wishes it, I shall come to eat with you all tonight, Sam.”

“Good,” Sam said, grinning. “What shall we do until then? Besides luncheon, I mean?”

“Let’s walk through the City, Sam,” Frodo suggested. “There is so much of it that we have not yet seen, and I shall feel bad if I cannot give Bilbo a full report – when we see him.”

“You’ll have such a lot to tell him,” Sam said, as they slid off the bench and began to stroll towards the gate. “All about Gollum, and the oliphaunt, and being rescued by the Eagles …”

“I think it will be for you to tell,” Frodo returned, folding his hands behind his back. “I am afraid I do not remember much, not very clearly. Until I woke and saw Gandalf, that is. From the field of Cormallen to now, it is all very clear.”

Sam said nothing, but put his head down.

They turned out of the Houses of Healing and went down towards the lower circles, passing as they did many of the City’s people, recently returned from exile. Women were hanging tapestries and cloths out of windows to air them; men were busy repainting doors and window-frames in clean, fresh colours. As Frodo and Sam walked by, those on the streets turned, and nudged each other, and called out greetings which Frodo acknowledged with a smile, and Sam with a blushing grin.

“I wish my Gaffer could see this,” he said to Frodo, as they passed a baker’s shop from which came tempting smells and a cry of, “Hail, little masters!”

“What would he say, do you think?” Frodo asked.

“Well,” Sam said slowly, “I hope he’d be pleased I got here all in one piece, though he’d probably not think much of these Big Folk. He’d want more gardens, too. Not many gardens in this City.”

Frodo paused as a boy pushing a barrow full of timber hurried by. “I know Legolas has promised Elves to help Aragorn rebuild the City, and fill it with green. You should offer your services too, Sam. Show them what a hobbit-garden can look like.”

Sam smiled. “Now you’re joking, Mr Frodo. What would Strider want with a hobbit-garden, and taters, when he can have an Elvish one? Not that taters aren’t good fare, but not for a King’s table.”

“I can’t see why not,” Frodo said seriously. “Kings and queens have to eat just like normal folk, Sam, and some of the Gaffer’s potatoes, or his carrots, would doubtless go down very well indeed. Aragorn never refused your cooking on the journey, at least not that I remember. You should send some seedlings, when we’re back home.”

“And shame the Lady’s flowers, that she brought from Lórien?” Sam asked. “Though now you’ve suggested it, Mr Frodo, I might see about sending a cutting of those roses that grow by the study window at Bag End. The white ones. The colour would be right, and they might look nice in one of the little gardens up in the Citadel.”

Frodo smiled, and patted Sam’s shoulder. “I think that would be an excellent idea.”

They paused outside a shop advertising pastries, and eyed the sign with interest.

“It’s gone eleven,” Sam said.

“I think I could eat a pie,” Frodo agreed. They pushed open the door and joined the short queue of people waiting to be served with the pies and pasties cooling on trays behind the counter.

“Mostly vegetable,” the shopkeeper was saying to his customers. “But there’s more meat coming in every day. These, now, are mutton, and excellent too. Two pasties, mistress?”

“What do you want, Sam?” Frodo asked, checking his pocket for pennies.

“I’d not say no to a pork pie,” Sam said.

The shopkeeper peered over his counter and down at them. “Good morrow, sirs!” he said. “It is an honour to welcome you. Did I hear a request for pork pie?”

“Only if you happen to have one,” Sam said. The man turned and wrapped a pie for Sam, passing it over the counter.

“And I would like a pasty, please,” Frodo added, and was shortly handed one, steaming in its paper wrapping. He held out some silver pennies, but the shopkeeper looked shocked, and shook his head.

“Nay, sir. I won’t take your money. Why, if it were not for you, then my shop would even now be in the hands of some foul Orc. Besides, you’re a friend of the King, or so they are saying. If you’ll thank him for getting the City back to rights so quickly, I will count that payment.”

“I’ll certainly tell him,” Frodo said. “And I thank you, sir, for your welcome.”

They exchanged nods, and Sam and Frodo slipped out clutching their food. “That was good of him,” Sam observed, as they went to find a place to sit and eat.

“Too good,” Frodo said, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Remind me to tell Aragorn, Sam. I think I shall certainly come to supper.”

They climbed up on a wall and set to their pies.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, following the wedding of Aragorn and Arwen. A series of snapshots from one day, featuring the Fellowship and co-starring Faramir, the Twins, Elrond and Galadriel.

The sun beat down on the Pelennor. Mindolluin cast a shadow across the field, but it was scant comfort for those who laboured, continuing the tasks of clearing the ground of debris from battle, and of mending the wall of the City. Wooden scaffolds had been built, and great piles of stone being shaped stood by the wall. The sound of tapping and hammering, and the calls of the overseers, echoed off the mountainside.

Close to the largest breach in the defences, a stout figure was at work, attended by a tall stonemason from the City who was listening and watching intently.

Now Gimli walked around the block of stone twice, before looking up at the man beside him. “Hammer and chisel,” he said. The man nodded, and pulling the tools from the pocket of his leather apron handed them to Gimli.

The dwarf took them, weighing them in his hands, and examined the stone one more time, before placing the chisel carefully on one edge of the block. He struck one firm blow with the hammer, and a chip flew off. Gimli ran his hand over the stone, and took another chip off the opposite side.

“Now,” he said, “it’s smooth.” He handed the hammer and chisel back to his companion. “Make them all like that. Think like a Dwarf. Look at your stone from all angles before you replace it in the wall. Do that, and they will fit together like a dream.”

The mason nodded. Gimli grinned at him, and picked up his axe where it lay by his side. “Now, I must leave you. Send word should you need me again.”

He made his way along the wall of the City, speaking briefly to some of the men at work repairing the stone. From time to time, he shook his head as he came upon a part of the wall which was particularly badly damaged. The air was full of the dust from the work, men doing what they could with the stone at hand. Gimli made a mental note to arrange transport of new stone from Mindolluin, and went through the Gate, nodding at the Guards on duty.

Climbing the City streets, the dwarf was pleased to notice the increase of activity. He paused to watch a painter at work on the outside of a house before continuing upwards towards the Tower.

As he passed an open gate in the third circle, voices drifted out.

“A beech tree would be ideal here,” someone said, their tone clear. “And some flowers around the base.”

“Elanor, maybe?” another voice suggested. “I will ask for some more seedlings to be sent from Lórien.”

Gimli patted a stray braid down and went through the gate.

Three figures were standing around an empty pool in the centre of a garden. The grass was green but otherwise the space was bare. A Man was bent over a sheet of parchment, drawing, and nodding eagerly as the others spoke. But the taller of the two turned as Gimli crossed the lawn, and a wide smile lit up his face.

“Gimli! You are just in time to advise us on the matter of trees for this garden.”

“You know full well I know naught of such things,” Gimli returned, “but I was looking for you, my friend.”

Legolas laughed. “I see dust on your beard, my good Dwarf.”

“I imagine he has been aiding the masons again,” the third person said. Gimli bowed low.

“My Lady is correct,” he replied. “Though my expertise pales into nothing next to your knowledge of plants.”

“I am looking after the flowers alone,” Galadriel said, the ring on her finger catching the light from the Sun high above. “Legolas is advising Estel on trees. So, a beech?” She turned to Legolas, who nodded.

“We have not planned many beeches as yet, and they would grow wonderfully well here.”

The man drew a rough circle, and labelled it “beech” in laborious script. “And elanor around its base, my lady?” he asked, looking up.

“I think so,” Galadriel said, peering down at the drawing. “Yes, that will do very well indeed. Some lilies in the pool also, and seats, and the people of this neighbourhood will have a lovely space to rest.”

Legolas turned to Gimli. “We have done all the lower levels of the City now,” he told his friend. “It only remains for the planting to be done, and then for the folk of the City to nurture their gardens.”

“Well, I hope they do so,” Gimli said gruffly. “Or you will both have gone to much effort for naught.”

“I think they will,” Galadriel replied. “For love of their City, and their king.”

“How is Aragorn?” asked Gimli, as they turned to leave the garden and continue upwards. “I have not seen him yet today.”

“Nor have I,” Legolas said. “I imagine he is busy.”

“Busy with his duties,” Galadriel put in, folding her hands in front of her. “I saw my grandchildren heading out on to the Pelennor before I joined you, Legolas.”

“He should be able to enjoy this new peace like the rest of us,” Gimli said, running a finger along the edge of his axe. “It does not seem fair.”

“He knows that fairness does not enter into it,” said Galadriel, glancing down at the Dwarf. “As does Arwen.”

Gimli grunted. “That does not change the fact that it certainly is not fair!” he said.

They fell silent as they climbed the streets. Gimli noticed that the folk about their business fell silent as the two Elves passed, and some bowed their heads. Neither Legolas nor Galadriel appeared aware of the behaviour, but the dwarf was certain that both had remarked the attitude of the people towards them.

“Are you coming to eat in the Tower tonight, my friend?” Legolas asked Gimli. “I believe we will all be there, all of our company.”

Gimli nodded. “You mean that Frodo is coming too?” he said. “He’s been strangely absent recently.”

“Sam was under orders to make sure he came,” Legolas agreed. “And of course we can trust to Merry and Pippin to be there.”

“You must not put too much pressure on Frodo,” Galadriel reminded them both gently. “He has suffered more than any of you except Sam know. And even Sam perhaps does not realise how deep the hurt goes.”

“Poor Frodo,” Gimli mused. “We’d all have carried the Ring for him, if he had asked us.”

“That was not your task, Gimli,” said Galadriel.

Gimli met her eyes, and bowed his head.

At the entrance to the Tower Galadriel took her leave of her companions, and disappeared inside silently. Gimli watched her go with a sigh.

“Come, my good dwarf,” Legolas said, “let us sit on the walls awhile. I have not seen enough of you lately.”

“Those walls have had to be rebuilt, Master Greenleaf,” Gimli said, as they found a spot looking over the Pelennor. “I have been busy.”

“I know,” his friend replied. “And you have done good work, Gimli. As, I think, have we. Still this stone chokes me.”

“Looking to return home?” Gimli asked.

“Home, or to wander in woodland,” Legolas said. “And then mayhap you will come with me?”

Gimli rested his hands on his axe and watched the fields far below. “Maybe I will, Legolas. When the others leave, I will leave.”

“That will not be until they take Théoden to his resting place,” the Elf said. “But that would be a suitable time.”

“Then we will go together?” Gimli said.

“Then we will go together.” They exchanged smiles and fell to silent contemplation of the City.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, following the wedding of Aragorn and Arwen. A series of snapshots from one day, featuring the Fellowship and co-starring Faramir, the Twins, Elrond and Galadriel.

“Look at that!” Elladan waved his hand towards the topmost spire of the Tower, shining silver in the sunlight. “It is a beautiful place, this Minas Tirith of yours, Arwen.”

Arwen leaned over to pat her horse’s head, and smiled at her brother. “I do not think of it as my city, brother. It is Estel’s city. It is the people’s city. Perhaps, in time, I shall come to treat it as mine too.”

Elrohir’s horse pranced round them. “I wish Estel were here too. I pity him, shut up working. But then, he’s King now.”

They turned away from the City, with an unspoken accord, and began to trot towards the Rammas. “Do you remember the day he arrived in Imladris?” Elladan asked.

“With his mother?” said Elrohir. “Aye, I do. Such a small little thing, with those big grey eyes …”

“… And hair sticking up all over,” Elladan finished. “And Gilraen, so sad, mourning Arathorn. So young, they both were.”

“We kept telling father to send for you or Grandmother,” Elrohir said to Arwen. “That she should have some female company.”

“Perhaps he already feared our meeting,” Arwen said softly. “Poor Father.”

“I cannot say I blame him,” Elrohir said. He looked thoughtful, and then grinned. “But on the other hand, in many ways I am far gladder to have Estel as a brother-in-law than anyone else.”

“You could have married that golden-haired one from Lórien,” Elladan suggested. “You know who I mean, Arwen?”

“Telpir?” she said. “He played the harp. Not badly, but not well.”

“That was about all he did,” Elladan agreed. “I do not recall ever seeing Telpir do anything else.”

“He couldn’t shoot,” Elrohir added. “We held a contest once. I cannot remember him hitting a single bulls eye. Then he went off to mope and play his harp again. No, you are far better off with Estel, Arwen.”

Some men occupied in repairing a homestead stopped to watch the three of them ride by, belatedly bowing, and not returning to their work until the Elves had gone another hundred yards.

“Where is father this morning?” Arwen asked her brothers.

They exchanged glances. “In the Houses of Healing, trying to teach the Warden about herbs, I believe,” Elladan said.

“Clearing out their store of dead plants, too,” Elrohir put in. “They have jars and jars of useless herbs, and yet scarce one leaf of athelas when it is called for. It astonishes me so many of their men survived the siege. Tell Estel to keep an eye on that place, sister.”

Arwen gave her horse a nudge to speed it up. “I trust you will both be returning here often – you can help him a little, I hope?” Elladan and Elrohir said nothing, and she looked from one to the other. “You are staying, are you not?” Her voice was steady, but her brothers’ eyes met.

“Well …” Elrohir began, and Elladan brought his horse around the other side of Arwen, so she was riding between them.

“For the moment, aye, we are staying,” Elrohir continued. “You know that father intends to leave soon, before five winters have passed, maybe?”

Arwen bowed her head, and nodded. “Yes, I know.”

“We have not yet decided when we will sail, or even if we will sail,” Elladan said. “We may yet choose as you have. In which case we shall certainly come and live here, and help Estel. Cheer him up when the burden of kingship grows too heavy. Play with our nephews and nieces, in time, I hope!”

“Not just yet,” Arwen said, a red glow suffusing her cheeks. “Come on, brothers. I shall race you both to that sentry-post, ahead.” She kicked her horse, and gave herself a head start before either of her brothers had reacted to the challenge. With a whoop, Elladan bent over his horse’s neck and was after her, and a split second later Elrohir too had joined the chase. The dust flew up beneath the hooves of their steeds, the soft fabric of Elven-cloaks floated in the wind, and those working on the Pelennor shaded their eyes to see the three thunder past.

Arwen looked sideways to see Elladan come abreast of her, and she called laughingly to her horse to move faster. On the other side, Elrohir came into her peripheral vision, leaning low to speak to his mount. Now they were all three level, the wind whistling in their ears, and the sentries at the post had come out of their hut to watch the race.

“ _Noro lim_!” Arwen said again. Her horse neighed and she felt the extra spurt of speed underneath her. Ahead, one of the sentries had quickly dragged a line in the dusty grass with the tip of his sword, and had moved back out of the way. The Guards had by now recognised Arwen, and were cheering her on with shouts of, “The Queen! Come on, Gondor!”

One of her brothers let out a cry, and Arwen bent as low as she could over her steed’s neck for the final dash. The line went past, and she slowed the horse and turned. Beside her, Elladan and Elrohir were doing the same, their hair tousled a little by the wind. The sentries were cheering wildly.

“Did I win?” Arwen asked, riding back towards them.

“Aye, your Majesty, I think you did,” one of them said, bowing. “Though it was a close victory.”

“Bested by a lady!” Elladan said, coming to join them and shaking his head. “Our little sister has outdone us, Elrohir.”

“Oft times the lighter may make the better speed, my lord,” another Guard said gravely. “It was a good race.”

“I trust your vigil goes quietly, that we afford you such entertainment?” Elrohir asked, his horse cavorting around the group.

“No problems, my lord,” the first sentry said. “All is quiet. We see only those on City business, out trying to return this land to its former use, or embassies on their way to the King.”

“I see this will be the eventual problem of winning the War,” Elrohir said to his brother. “Estel will bring all lands to a state of such peace, there will be naught to hunt.”

“The South is not yet entirely under Gondor’s thumb, brother,” Elladan returned. “I foresee some years yet of trouble. There’ll be work enough for us.”

Elrohir nodded, and seemed to cheer up again. The Guard looked glum.

“You’re probably right, my lord,” he said, “but many folk will be sorry to think upon it that way. We have suffered overlong, and lost too many people.”

Arwen smiled down at him. “I am certain his Majesty will do his utmost to avoid bloodshed,” she said. “Do not listen to my brothers. They have always enjoyed a fight a little too much. Believe me, my husband knows how his people feel, and indeed shares those feelings himself.”

The sentry bowed low. “Thank you, your Majesty, for your kind words. The King’s coming is a great event, and he has indeed chosen the best of spouses.”

“And I am glad to know you feel that way,” Arwen said. “In fact I am riding back to the City now and shall tell Elessar so myself. A very good day to you all.”

“To you too, your Majesty,” the men chorused, and Arwen and her brothers rode away from the sentry post.

“Going back?” Elrohir said, mournfully.

“Estel has an open audience this afternoon with the people, and I think he would like it if I were there,” his sister replied. “You have no such pressure on your time, Elrohir. Ride somewhere and bring back some interesting tale for this evening’s meal – I trust you are both coming? Aragorn wishes all his friends to be there, for we have been too much separated of late.”

“We’ll be there,” Elladan promised. “Go on, hurry to your audience, Arwen.”

She smiled at them both, and then shook the reins of her horse and trotted back in the direction of Minas Tirith, the silver spire of the Tower ahead of her. The brothers watched her go.

“Let’s ride to the Rammas,” Elrohir said, and they turned in the opposite direction.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, following the wedding of Aragorn and Arwen. A series of snapshots from one day, featuring the Fellowship and co-starring Faramir, the Twins, Elrond and Galadriel.

Pippin slipped the black surcoat on over his armour, and waggled his arms to settle the weight on his shoulders. “Sometimes,” he said, “I wish that uniforms involved a nice comfortable waistcoat and breeches.”

Merry fastened the clasp of his short green cloak and adjusted the angle of his sword. “That’s the uniform of the Shire,” he pointed out. “Here we must make an impression.”

“I’m sure cousin Frodo and Sam will not be wearing anything special,” Pippin grumbled.

“They are not esquires of Gondor or Rohan,” Merry returned. “Anyway, I saw a servant hurrying to their quarters with a pile of new clothes. Which hopefully means Frodo is at least coming tonight.”

“Oh good.” Pippin picked up his Elven-cloak and carefully pinned the slightly battered brooch to it. “I know Strider wanted everyone there, and I don’t think Frodo has been eating enough recently.”

“None of us have been eating enough recently – well, maybe in the past week or so, but not before that,” Merry said. “I’ll be glad when we get back to the Shire and there’s none of this rationing business.”

“Only Men would think up rationing,” Pippin added. “Ready? I think we have time for a stroll on the battlements before the feast is served. We could work up an appetite.”

Merry hit his cousin lightly on the shoulder. “You do not need to work up an appetite, Peregrin Took!”

Leading the way out of the door, Pippin shrugged. “Well, we haven’t been eating very much recently, you just said that yourself. But we do have a reputation to keep up.”

They made their way up on to the wall which surrounded the Citadel itself and began to walk along it, stopping every now and then to stand on tiptoe and peer over the battlements down at the City.

“Fancy building something like this place!” Merry said. “Remember what we thought when we got to Bree?”

“It’s all relative,” Pippin said wisely. “Why, there’d be hobbits in the Shire who’d be amazed if they were ever let inside the Smials. If you don’t know your way around it’s perfectly easy to get lost in there. Don’t you remember old Fatty Bolger shutting himself in a pantry, at my aunt’s birthday party five years ago? We couldn’t find him for hours.”

Merry laughed. “Fatty got lost in Brandy Hall too,” he agreed. “It’s a good thing he didn’t come with us. He’d have got mislaid in the Old Forest. Or in Bree …”

“I felt very small in Bree,” Pippin put in.

“And then Rivendell. The food was good in Rivendell.”

“And Moria, with those pillars.”

“And I was quite impressed when I got to Edoras,” Merry said. “It’s nice, Edoras. Much smaller than here. More of a simple place. And the Rohirrim are more generous with their food.”

“Back to food again,” Pippin laughed. “What time is it, I wonder?”

“Nearly dusk,” a voice said from above them. “Well met, Master Took!”

“Hullo, Beregond!” Pippin said, exchanging bows with the tall Man who had come upon them from the other direction.

“Master Brandybuck,” Beregond greeted Merry. “I am pleased to see you both.”

“It’s good to see you too,” said Pippin, enthusiastically. “But I thought you’d already left for Ithilien.”

“I am to leave next week,” Beregond answered, taking a seat upon a nearby stone bench. The hobbits climbed up next to him. “Though the lord Prince will not come for some weeks yet, I am to prepare his house and see what else needs to be done. Much, I do not doubt.”

“And Bergil?” Pippin asked, thinking of Beregond’s son who had proved such a good companion during his first lonely days in Minas Tirith. “Is he going with you?”

Beregond shook his head. “Nay. Until peace is certain, he will remain in the City with my wife, and continue his schooling. Eventually I hope they will both join me in Ithilien. My lord Faramir has said that when the time is right, he will accept Bergil into the company and train him as a Ranger. For now, though, my family has the King’s grace to stay here.”

“Good old Strider,” Pippin said.

The Man smiled. “I still find it strange, Master Took, how you can talk of the King with such ease.”

Pippin glanced at Merry, who laughed. “It is our way, I suppose. In any case, he was introduced to us as Strider, and I can’t get used to thinking of him as a king.”

“Different countries have different customs,” Beregond observed, looking down at his companions. “I daresay the lady Éowyn will have some changes to make when she comes to Ithilien as its Princess.” He seemed a little doubtful about what changes Éowyn might impose on his captain, and Merry hastened to defend his adopted lady.

“She is a lady worthy of marrying the lord Faramir,” he said. “I hope you’ll be proud to serve her, sir.”

Beregond nodded gravely. “Aye, Master Brandybuck, I will be. Though it may seem strange at first to have a Rohirric maiden as the Lady of Ithilien, the tales of her deed have spread far and wide, and for that at least we should honour her.”

The sky above them was now turning a deep blue, Eärendil sparkling brightly, and from the height of the tower glimmering silver in the twilight there came a trumpet call.

“Aha!” said Pippin. “That, I think, means dinner.”

“That means I should hurry home,” Beregond said.

“Are you not eating with your Company?” Pippin asked, and the Man shook his head.

“No, Master Took. Until I leave for Ithilien, my lodgings are with my family. I shall give Bergil your greetings.”

“Please do!” Pippin said. “I hope we will see you again, before you leave or we leave.”

Beregond nodded, and standing bowed to them. Merry and Pippin returned the bow, and they parted company, the hobbits hurrying off towards the Citadel and Beregond turning in the direction of the lower levels of the City.

In the great hall of the Tower, the hobbits found the table almost ready and servants bustling about putting the finishing touches to what looked like being a rich and hearty feast. Pippin and Merry exchanged pleased glances, and Pippin licked his lips in anticipation as a large pie was brought and placed at the centre of the table. They were walking along the length of the board, peering in interest at the food, when another trumpet call rang out and the doors opened to admit the rest of the company, headed by the King and Queen.

The hobbits stood back to allow Aragorn and Arwen through, and joined in the small procession as Frodo and Sam came past them, wearing the new clothes Merry had seen earlier. Sam grinned at them cheerfully, but Frodo looked rather grave.

Aragorn took the seat at the head of the table, and the others found their places along either side, with Gandalf taking the chair at the foot. For a moment, they all turned, and faced West in silence, and then there was the squeaking as chairs were pulled out and pushed back in again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, following the wedding of Aragorn and Arwen. A series of snapshots from one day, featuring the Fellowship and co-starring Faramir, the Twins, Elrond and Galadriel.

Merry’s voice carried along the table. “And then, Pip said …”

Gandalf put his goblet down and laughed softly to himself. Beside him, Galadriel said, “have I missed a joke, my lord Mithrandir?”

“Nay, my lady,” Gandalf said, turning to smile at her. “I was just reflecting on the successful completion of labours, and on the chances that have brought us all together. I would never have expected to hear Meriadoc Brandybuck telling tales of the Shire to Elladan, yet there they are.”

“Despite their differences in age and race,” Celeborn commented, “my grandson and Master Brandybuck are remarkably alike.”

“Mischief-makers,” Galadriel said, smiling across the table at her lord. “I wonder whose idea it was to seat the young hobbits next to the twins.”

Elrohir turned from an animated conversation with Pippin on his right and patted his grandmother’s hand affectionately. “Mine, of course, my lady. I asked Estel, and he saw no reason for us not to become better acquainted.”

“And it seems that hobbits can teach the Elves something about practical jokes, despite having much less time to practice them,” Elladan put in. “I’ll remember that one, Meriadoc.”

A servant came to take away empty dishes, and another to refill the wine.

“As I have been saying for a while now,” Gandalf said, “hobbits have a lot to teach many of us. Though I do hope we are not all to be attacked from all sides with these practical jokes.” He looked hard at the foursome from under his eyebrows.

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged glances, and then both succeeded in looking as innocent as their small neighbours.

“We’ve had enough of being attacked, Gandalf,” Pippin said brightly.

“And of attacking,” Merry agreed. “It’s all right, we’ll save them up for when we get home. Plenty of small cousins to play them on. And older ones,” he added, glancing up the table at Frodo.

Gimli leant over. “Could someone pass the bread rolls?”

Gandalf picked up the basket and watched it pass from hand to hand until it reached Sam, who took one absently whilst listening in fascination to Frodo and Faramir, deep in conversation.

“That is my dream,” Faramir said, swirling the wine in his goblet thoughtfully. “I hope that now, maybe, I shall not have it again.”

“Dreams can be strange things,” Frodo said. “I wonder where they come from.”

“From the West,” Elrond suggested, glancing across at the hobbit. “Though mayhap you would be best asking Gandalf, or Galadriel, about that.”

Faramir shrugged. “Perhaps I will, if neither the Lord nor the Lady object, and if my duties allow me the time. But if dreams come from the Lords of the West, my lord Elrond, why did a dream take my brother from me?”

Aragorn looked up at this. “It was not the dream that took your brother from you, but something much more powerful.”

There was silence. Sam cast an anxious look at his master, and then a beseeching one at Aragorn, who smiled reassuringly back. Frodo’s eyes flicked down at his plate, and then up again.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Do not worry about me, Aragorn.”

“If we worry,” Aragorn returned, “it is only because we have not seen much of you.”

“I was tired,” Frodo said, “that’s all. I’ll be all right again soon.” He paused. “Oh, a man in a pie shop asked me to thank you for setting the City back to rights. He refused to let us pay for the food.”

“Good pies,” Sam interjected, a gleam in his eyes.

“Which level of the City?” Faramir asked.

“The fourth, I think,” Frodo said.

“I’ll find the shop and ensure he gets a good supply of meat,” Faramir suggested, and Aragorn nodded approvingly.

“Arwen and I will ride down and visit him too,” he said. “Such generosity should not go unrewarded.”

“Which reminds me,” Arwen said, laying a hand on her husband’s arm, “I was bade to tell you that your coming is a great event, and that you have chosen your queen well.”

“Who said that?” Aragorn asked, laughing, clasping Arwen’s hand in his tenderly.

“A Guardsman on the fields. He was concerned that there may be more fighting. Our brothers were of course delighted at the idea, but the Guards wish only for peace.”

“The City has been long at war, my lady,” Faramir said. “We all wish only for peace.”

“And I hope we shall have peace,” said Aragorn.

Elrond nodded in agreement. “My sons are on occasion too lively, my lord Prince,” he said to Faramir. “Indeed, did I not know better, I would think them mere boys, all too often.”

Faramir smiled, and glanced across the table at his uncle, involved in a lively talk with another Elf who looked like a mere boy.

“Archery, mainly,” Legolas was saying. “We have become accustomed to hunting silently, and a bow serves best for that sort of combat. In a wood there is never a shortage of materials for making and repairing bows and arrows. If these things interest you, my lord Imrahil, you must come to the Greenwood, and see its beauty for yourself.”

Imrahil’s eyes lit up. “Indeed I would be honoured,” he said. “But in return, you must come to Dol Amroth.”

Running a finger along the stem of his goblet, Legolas shook his head. “No. I think not. I fear that if I came to Dol Amroth, I would not return home. In my heart, I am not ready to leave the woodlands yet.”

“Besides,” Gimli said, “you have other places to visit too.” The Elf and the Dwarf exchanged grins. “Legolas,” Gimli explained to Imrahil, “has extracted a promise from me that if I visit his forest, he must come with me to visit my Mountain. And the Caves of Aglarond, Legolas, remember your word!”

Legolas nodded.

“I understand from his Majesty that we are to expect a party of your people to help repair the walls of the City,” said Imrahil, breaking off a piece of bread to mop up sauce from his platter. “That will certainly cause a deal of excitement.”

“In time, aye,” Gimli said. “And as I’ve told Aragorn, the walls do need repairing.”

He paused, as the servants hurried around again to clear away plates and the dishes from the centre of the table, which were all looking decidedly empty. They were replaced with baskets of fruit and some large silver salvers holding sweet biscuits. The hobbits, save Frodo, immediately reached out to sample the biscuits. “Filling up the corners,” sighed Pippin happily.

At the head of the table, Aragorn pushed back his chair and stood up, and they fell silent. “I am glad to see you all here this evening,” he said, looking around at each one of his guests. “My queen, my kinsmen, my lords, and our Fellowship. That we are here at all is a matter for wonder and for joy, and all of us owe something to all the rest. I thank you for all your labours.”

He lifted his glass, and drank, and after a moment the company stood and drank also. Gandalf met Aragorn’s gaze, and nodded, a sparkle in his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, following the wedding of Aragorn and Arwen. A series of snapshots from one day, featuring the Fellowship and co-starring Faramir, the Twins, Elrond and Galadriel.

The guests sat down again, and Aragorn bent to Arwen and murmured something in her ear. She looked up at him, and smiled, and he brushed a kiss on her forehead and turned to Faramir.

“Will you take some air with me, my lord Steward?”

Faramir nodded. “Gladly, sire.”

They excused themselves and went out of the hall, servants pushing open the doors and bowing as they went past. Aragorn led the way on to the battlements, taking a pipe out of his robes.

“I hope you will excuse me smoking,” he apologised, finding tinder and lighting the weed. “It is a long habit and not easily broken.”

His companion folded his hands behind his back and shook his head. “I do not understand it as a habit, but it does not bother me,” he said. Aragorn smiled, and contentedly puffed a stream of smoke into the night air. “I was glad to have the opportunity to speak more with the halfling Frodo,” Faramir commented, as they strolled along. “He is a wise and courteous person.”

“And burdened,” Aragorn said, “though his burden may have been destroyed. I think he found pleasure in speaking with you, my lord, and am glad of it.” They came to a bench overlooking the City with the Pelennor below, and sat. “I was, and am, concerned about Frodo’s welfare,” he continued, glancing sideways at Faramir, “but he was not the only one I found in sombre mood tonight.”

Faramir met the King’s eyes with their glint of wisdom and power. “I miss my brother,” he said, after a pause. “I feel inadequate in this position. He should have been here, in my place, Steward of his city. And I cannot help wondering, sometimes, how he succumbed. Why he fell.”

Another stream of smoke spiralled up into the night sky. “The power of the Ring ensnared many great men,” said Aragorn. “Elrond, if you ask him, may tell you of the change it wrought in Isildur himself.”

“It did not ensnare you, my lord,” Faramir murmured.

For a moment, Aragorn said nothing. “No,” he said, eventually. “No, not in the way it did Boromir. But it brought uncertainty, and doubt. If Frodo had not decided to go alone to Mordor, I would have gone with him, though in truth my heart said that my duty lay this way. And Faramir – for let us not stand on ceremony, you and I – your brother died a noble death.”

“So the halflings have told me,” Faramir said, sighing.

Aragorn nodded. “But they do not know the end of his tale. I came upon Boromir too late to help him fight, and too late to attempt to save him, but he was yet alive. He told me he was sorry. At the last he repented, and he died in peace.” He breathed out smoke, and felt some of the strain of holding Boromir’s words to himself go with it.

Faramir bowed his head. “I … I am glad. He always used to say that he wished to die in battle, and take his enemies with him. He would have hated to rule as Steward, really. He was a warrior. He was the Steward’s heir, and would have made a great ruler – but he was a fighter.”

Glancing sideways at his companion, Aragorn took a deep draw on his pipe. “Your mother predicted that he would be, just after his birth.”

Faramir’s head turned abruptly. “My lord?” he said.

“Please, no titles,” Aragorn reminded him. “Yes. Even as a baby, Boromir had the makings of a swordsman. I think it saddened your mother.”

Shaking his head, Faramir seemed lost for words. Eventually he spoke. “I do not understand,” he said. “You knew my mother? You have been here before? Why … why wait until now to tell me?”

“I am sorry,” Aragorn said, meaning it. The younger man’s face was full of confusion, his grey eyes seeking answers. “I could not find the right time. Then your uncle came to me this morning, and informed me that he had recognised me, and he said he thought you should know. It was a long time ago.” He looked out at the stars shining in the night sky above them. “I served here for a while in the Tower Guard. Third Company. And I was one of your grandfather’s advisors. I was with your father’s company when we rode to Dol Amroth.”

Faramir stood up and began to pace, his usual stillness broken. “But that was well-nigh forty years ago! And if you were here then, why did you not claim the throne?”

“I am older than I look.”

Briefly, the pacing stopped, and Aragorn found the sea-grey eyes meeting his. “Yes. Yes, I see that now.” The younger man seemed about to say something else, before breaking off. Aragorn waited another moment and continued.

“And it was not the time, then. Sauron was growing more powerful … Mithrandir was concerned about Saruman …” Aragorn stood and went to lean against the parapet. “I was a stranger. Though by the end, by the time I left, Ecthelion, and maybe your father also, had come to their own conclusions. Although your father never said anything to me.”

“He taught us always that a Steward was the equal of a king,” Faramir said. “That though a Steward would never take the throne, our lineage was as great. That we deserved to rule this City, this land.” He looked up again from his pacing. “Forgive me – but that was what we were taught, Boromir and I. I think I always believed that my father was … not wrong, exactly, but that the glory of a king would far outweigh the severity of a Stewardship.”

“I expect I have disappointed you, then,” Aragorn returned, “for I am just a man like yourself.”

“Disappointed?” Faramir said. “No.” He sat again on the bench. “No. I was wandering, when you called me. Everything was dark, lit only by flame, and I wandered, lost in the mist. And then I heard your voice calling me. There may have been a light. You called, and I awoke.”

“Training with one of the greatest healers of the Age,” Aragorn said, shrugging, “that is all. Knowledge of the right herbs to use, and too many injuries tended after too many battles. That chatterbox Ioreth may quote her proverbs, Faramir, but healing is just one of many skills any man may learn.”

“But you are not any man,” Faramir said, fervently. “You are our king. My king.”

“And you,” said Aragorn, tapping out his pipe, “are my Steward. My most essential advisor. I need you, Faramir. In these first weeks I need you to help me with the running of this City. And later, though you may be in Ithilien, I will still need you to counsel me, to tell me when I am doing things wrong, to stand in my stead should I be called elsewhere.”

Their eyes met, and Faramir nodded – once, hesitantly, and then again, firmly. Aragorn smiled. “Good. And also, I think I will need you to bring the lady Éowyn to the City, every once in a while, to spend some time with Arwen. I think they will understand one another very well, those two.”

“It will be an honour, my …” began Faramir, and broke off, shaking his head. “Nay, it will be my pleasure – Aragorn.”

“There. Now you see,” Aragorn said. “A king and a steward are equals. Your father was right.”

Faramir returned his grin. “Shall we walk a little further?” he suggested, standing up. Aragorn tucked away his pipe, and joined the younger man, and they began to stroll along the battlements away from the Tower. “What was my mother like?” Faramir asked, and Aragorn broke into tales of years long gone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, following the wedding of Aragorn and Arwen. A series of snapshots from one day, featuring the Fellowship and co-starring Faramir, the Twins, Elrond and Galadriel.

The sapling was glimmering faintly in the moonlight. Galadriel reached out and touched it gently. “Like, and yet not,” she said.

“But this tree lives,” Gandalf said, sitting down on the bench by the fountain.

“As the Trees of Valinor live yet in my memory,” returned Galadriel, and into her companions’ minds came an image of light and splendour.

“And in mine,” Gandalf acknowledged. He drew out a pipe and lit it, the glowing weed lighting his eyes.

Elrond trailed a hand in the water of the fountain, and gazed down at the reflection of the stars above. There was silence, and an onlooker would have said that each of the three was occupied with his or her own thoughts. Eventually, however, Elrond said, “Not yet, then, but soon.”

“In a year or so,” agreed Gandalf, sending a smoke ring sailing through the branches of the tree. He met Galadriel’s eyes. “The long years of your exile are over.”

She was silent for a moment. “It has not all been exile,” she said. “I have been happy here. But I think, at last, our time is drawing to an end.”

Lifting his eyes from the water to the high Tower above them, lights twinkling in its windows, Elrond nodded, and sighed deeply. His companions watched him, sympathy in their faces.

“She will be happy,” Galadriel said. “And Gondor is now in good hands.”

“The best,” Gandalf added. “Aragorn will be a good King. You’ve done well, Elrond; shown him the best of Men and the best of Elves. Brought out the best in his blood.”

“I know all this,” Elrond said, heatedly, beginning to pace the width of the small garden, hands hidden in his robes. “Our time is passing, my lady awaits me in the West, and Estel will be a good king. A great king. But I am still angry, nay, furious, with him, with fate. I lost my brother to death, and my parents to the heavens, and now I must lose my daughter for love. And I can do nothing.” He held up his hand, and the stone of his ring shone blue suddenly in the starlight. “This is useless, useless!”

“But they have not always been useless,” said Gandalf, his own red stone glinting as if in answer to Elrond. “Everything has an end, my friend, even the Eldar, and their works. You know this. You have always known this, better than most because of what you are.”

“Yet some ends come sooner than we would hope,” Elrond returned. He sat down on the edge of the fountain.

Galadriel looked at him, and smiled sympathetically. He met her gaze and shook his head.

“No, my lady, use speech. My mind is too full of grief tonight.”

“I would say, then, do not grieve,” Galadriel said. “You know you are not the first father to feel you are losing your daughter to mortality, Elrond. But this is not the First Age. For the moment, no darkness threatens. You know that Arwen will live a long and happy life with Aragorn, and she will remember you with love. Surely that is better than her sailing West and leaving her heart behind her? ”

Gandalf puffed on his pipe and said nothing, but watched his companions silently, a glint in his eye.

Galadriel rose, and touched Elrond’s arm. “Elrond, you know this is true. And maybe this union of Aragorn and Arwen was meant to be, to reunite the two divided lines of the Half-Elven.” She smiled warmly at him. “Indeed I have never seen two beings as like to their ancestors. Does that not tell you something? Remember her with love, and remember him with love, and you can tell Celebrían you bade farewell to a daughter who was happy.”

Standing, Gandalf came to stand near them by the White Tree. The three rings glowed warmly as they were brought close; red, crystal, sapphire. Elrond looked down at them. There was a long pause. No sound echoed in the courtyard save for the fountain, singing to itself cheerfully.

“Soon, then,” Elrond said, finally.

* * *

“I hope you haven’t got something dreadful planned with the lords Elladan and Elrohir,” Frodo said, as the hobbits walked back to their lodgings. “There was a lot of suspicious laughter from your end of the table.”

“And very little from yours, cousin Frodo,” Merry returned. “You all seemed remarkably sombre. Even Strider, and he should be happy, now he’s married and is King and all.”

“It wasn’t all sombre talk,” Sam said. “Prince Faramir and Mr Strider were telling tales of their journeys and battles a lot of the time. It was right interesting.”

“But there was something that made you all depressed,” noted Pippin astutely.

“We were talking of Boromir,” Frodo said. He paused. “And, a little, the Ring. But I am fine,” he hurried to add, as Merry and Pippin both opened their mouths to speak. “Indeed on the whole we had a very cheerful conversation. I certainly don’t think Aragorn has been as light-hearted since we left Rivendell. Yet it is he who has the hardest job of any of us now.”

“All right, Frodo!” Merry said, interrupting his cousin. “You were as jolly as any of us, I see that now. But you must forgive our concern. We have been awfully worried about you since we got back to the City. You seemed well enough when we were in Ithilien, but we just haven’t seen you around much here.”

Frodo clasped his hands behind his back, feeling the bandage perhaps more than ever. “I’m sorry, Merry,” he said. “If you were worried, you should have said. Next time speak up!”

Pippin nodded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “We will, never fear. Sam, you must tell us if he’s feeling out of sorts and we’ll come and cheer him up.”

Frodo laughed out loud. “Bless you, Pippin. Sam, did you hear that?”

Sam, who for some minutes had been walking along with his head at an angle, watching the stars, said, “Mr Frodo?” before registering the question. “Yes, Mr Frodo, I did hear that. To tell you the truth, Mr Pippin, I was hoping you’d say something to him. I’m glad you’ve spoken up.”

Sighing, Frodo shook his head. “You three are incorrigible. The conspiracy has never broken up. But I’m glad you’re here. Gandalf was right to make sure Elrond allowed you to come.” The hobbits exchanged smiles. “Now,” said Frodo, “tell me and Sam about these half-Elven jokes. Perhaps we could find a way to play one of them on Legolas or Gimli.”

Merry and Pippin eagerly started to talk, interrupting each other amid friendly jests. Frodo listened, a smile on his face, and began to forget about his pain – at least for a little while.

* * *

She was standing by the window when Aragorn came in, the curtains open and her hair blowing in the gentle night breeze. “How did it go?” she asked, without turning around.

Aragorn took off the silver circlet on his head and placed it carefully on a chest of drawers before crossing the room to Arwen. “Well,” he said. “Better than I had expected.” He put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close to him. “What are you looking at, my love?”

“At the Evening Star,” she said softly. “It looks different from here.”

“The stars are different here,” Aragorn agreed. “But no less beautiful.” She turned her face to his and he bent to kiss her. “Will you become accustomed to this life, do you think?” he murmured. “To this city of stone?”

“And to my body that will fail?” Arwen said. She smiled. “Yes. Though it may sound strange, yes, I will grow used to it. For this is a beautiful city, and the people are generous and kind, and I have you.”

“It will not always be easy,” he returned, a hand up to caress her cheek. “It will often be hard.”

“But we have each other,” Arwen replied. She kissed him, her eyes meeting his, and then she took his hand. He followed her across the room and dropped beside her on the bed, leaning across to blow out the candle on the table close by.

THE END


End file.
